Something Pretty
by Clark-G
Summary: She wasn’t sure going out to dinner with the best friend of the guy who just dumped her was such a good idea. Even if he was only trying to soften the blow and get her mind off of the wet, slimy pieces of broken eggshell that was her heart. Huddy.
1. First

Disclaimer: As usual, I do not make any claim to the characters (House, Cuddy, Wilson, etc) used in this story that I have not created in my weird little rat maze brain. They belong to Fox and David Shore.

Authors Note: Hello all! I'm back, as promised. And I come baring fanfiction! I want to first say thank you to everyone who reviewed my last story and I hope you continue to do so. This story is a post Both Sides Now story but does little in dealing with the direct aftermath of that story. If you haven't seen season five and don't want to be spoiled, don't read this. To everyone else, enjoy!

One more thing: this is by no means a song fic. BUT. I was really inspired to write while listening to Star Mile (by Joshua Radin) and The Scientist (by Cold Play). Also "Something Pretty" (by Patrick Park) really reminds me of House in general. I encourage you all to listen to them because they're awesome songs but also because they might make it more fun to read the fic.

xxxx

"I think I have the flu." The young man bore a skullcap with his greasy mussed hair sticking out like the straw from a scarecrow. His hunched posture and baggy style of dress gave away his youth long before his pimply, boyish looks.

"And?" House wore his trademark, raised brow expression. And a wrinkled button-up shirt.

"And..." The young man trailed off confusedly.

"And you're not going to mention the neck pain?"

"How'd you know about my neck?" The boy's voice sounded nervous and caught off guard.

"Because patients don't typically diagnose themselves with an incurable and completely harmless illness _before_ showing up to the doctor." He paused before adding. "Also you've been gripping your neck since I walked in."

"So... my neck hurts?"

"Is that a question?"

"My neck hurts," the boy confirmed with a nod.

"Yeah, I know," House said, rolling his eyes dramatically.

"But I just thought I'd been sleeping on it wrong."

"So you came to the clinic because you have the flu and you have a crick in your neck?"

"Well, I've had the flu for, like, ever."

"How long?" House rose from his chair to examine, his interest piqued.

"Like two months," the boy answers. House propped his cane against the exam table, and reached into his pocket, pulling out a bottle of prescription pills that did nothing for his leg pain. They were much weaker than the Vicodin so they barely took the edge off. But they subconsciously helped with his oral fixation, or so he told himself.

"Turn your head this way." House pointed horizontally to his left, the boy did so and winces in pain.

"That's a cool cane," the boy noticed.

"Yeah, I don't really need it, I just think it looks fly." The boy smiled at the use of such a dated term. "What are your symptoms?" House continued to examine the neck, gaping the collar of his shirt with his finger to look at his chest.

"Coughing, sneezing, runny nose, you know… flu stuff. I saw my doctor and he gave me stuff for it but it just keeps getting worse."

"Well, as I always say: other doctors are idiots." House leaned back, satisfied with his examination.

"You think he was wrong? It doesn't look like the flu?"

"Of course it looks like the flu. Give him some credit, he's a doctor!" House remarked with mock exclamation.

"But you just said he's an idiot." The boy spoke slowly and with a furrowed brow.

"Yeah, he's _probably_ an idiot. It _looks_ like the flu but if it _was,_ the medicine would have done something, right?"

"That's what I thought. The sneezing and stuff I can deal with. It's the fever that really sucks."

"Fever?" House asked in a low annoyed voice.

"Yeah I wake up in sweats, it's hard to get back to sleep. And I've got finals coming up."

"And when I asked what your symptoms were, you just thought you'd round down?"

"Well, it's part of the flu, right?"

"But as you have just astutely assessed, you do not have the flu."

"Just symptoms that look like the flu."

"Wow- that's just- you! You're good!" House said with a big smile, a pointed finger and his usual sarcasm.

"I was looking on the internet, and it said that thyroid conditions can have symptoms kinda like the flu. But I don't know how I-"

"Then why are you here? Dr. WebMD must have started treatment immediately!"

"Do you know what I have or not? Is it serious?"

"New car," he announced as he grabs his cane and took a seat, satisfied with his diagnosis.

"What?" the boy's obvious confusion getting the better of him.

"You have a new car." House said with an inflection that suggested this is obvious information.

"How'd you-?"

"When'd you get it?"

"A little over three months ago." The boy's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"About a month and a half before your symptoms started?"

"Yeah… what does that have to do with-?"

"At which point did you notice the seat-belt was on too tight?" House looked up at the boy with a glint of a sparkle in his eyes and an almost-smile.

"My seatbe—I… I dunno. Like right away. How'd you know?"

"Take off your shirt." The boy does as he is told. When he lifted up his shirt he reveals a faded, red and purple diagonal streak against the otherwise pink complexion of his chest and neck."

"Notice anything odd?" House smiled "For instance, the appearance that you forgot to take the seatbelt off?"

"Whoa, I… never noticed that. I mean I knew it was too tight, but I just thought I was supposed to work it in, ya know? I barely notice it anymore."

"Yeah, the safety devices in vehicles are usually _supposed_ to become less effective over time." Sarcasm comes all too easily in times like these.

"So that explains the neck thing but what about the flu?" he strained looking down at his discolored flesh with fascination.

"It explains that too," House said as he rose from his chair.

"So… my seatbelt gave me the flu?"

"Not quite. Your seatbelt rubbed against your thyroid, causing it to become enflamed and thus giving you both the flu-like symptoms and the pain in your neck." The neat little ribbon that tied it all together was a thing of beauty.

"Oh my god, it _is_ the thyroid thing? Is that bad? Like- is it fatal? Is the thyroid important or is it- what's it called… vigil?

"No, thyroids don't typically keep odd hours."

"Huh?"

"No the thyroid is not _vestigial_," House clarified, correcting the boy. "I'dve thought you would have learned that from the decorated Doctor Google. You'll need to be on a hormone replacement for a few weeks which should decrease the size of your thyroid and you might want to think about replacing the seat belt."

"That's going to be expensive," the boy sighed.

"Well, you could just remove the thyroid. Of course you'd be on hormone medication for the rest of your life but at least your _car_ doesn't have to have surgery." He reached in his pocket, pulled out his prescription pad, scribbled something down, and handed it off to the boy. He limped to the door. His fingertips touched the metal of the doorknob before the boy stopped him.

"You're really good," the boy hopped off of the exam table and joined him by the door. "I've only been here five minutes and you diagnosed me. Well, I've been here an hour but _you_ were only here five minutes. That's pretty impressive."

"That's the free clinic for ya. Hour of waiting, five minutes with a doctor. You should have stuck with the Dr. Jeeves. At least he can show you naked people while you wait." House opened the door, letting the boy pass him and walk out as he put his shirt back on and pocketed his prescription. House watched him go before closing the door in front of him and limping back into the exam room, where a magazine was waiting on the counter top. He grabbed it and plopped down in a chair. He barely opened the pages before he heard the sound of the door opening in front of him.

"How did I know I'd find you here?" Cuddy smiled. As usual, her black dress hugged her body tightly. Her thick, brown waves of hair framed her face in large swoops.

"You said take a patient into exam one. You didn't say to follow him out." She paused, taking a moment to shoot him an annoyed glance.

"Interesting interpretation," she said, holding her pointer finger against the side of her lips. "I'm glad to see that some things haven't changed."

"Well, aren't you sentimental. See, I'm just mental."

"I hope not. Otherwise, I fought to get your job back for nothing," she quipped, propping one hand on her hip.

"If by 'fought' you mean 'did very little', then yes I'd say so."

"You're kidding, right? I wasn't just sitting on my hands the past few months. You can't just stroll out of a psychiatric facility and back into your department like nothing happened. Especially when you alienate the people who could help you."

House had come back from his six month stint at Mayfield six months ago to find that he was no longer the head of his department. It had taken five and a half months to get his old job back. A long and arduous five and a half months. At the end of it, two things had certainly changed: House was off Vicodin and his relationship with Cuddy was on the rocks. He was short with her, distant. She had to corner him in the clinic just to talk to him.

House got up from the chair, pressing down heavily on the top of his cane.

"Yes. You scheduled me an evaluation with the hospital shrink. Thank you so very much, Dr. Cuddy. I don't know how I would have picked up the phone and called him myself. All of that button pushing- see, I'd just get confused." Cuddy cocked the bottom part of her jaw to the side.

"Right. I've done you no favors over the years. It isn't as if I hired you in the first place, when no other institution would have you."

"You're right," House said, making a move towards the door. "Thank you." His voice was gruff and almost humble. But the humility was false and she knew it. A year ago, this behavior would have surprised Cuddy. But it has become all too common as of late. He'd shown little interest in spending more than five minutes in a room with her. Even if that means having to wave a metaphorical white flag in the air as he limped out the door. Her eyes flit to the ceiling and her tongue nurses her lower lip in a subtle display of disappointment that was both noticed and ignored.

"See? Working in the clinic _has_ instilled some humanity in you," she said sarcastically, bouncing back.

"Wow. You're right, thank you. Now that I'm all fixed, I don't ever need to come back," he said over his shoulder. He opened the door and shuffled out into the mid-day bustle of the clinic. Cuddy quickly followed behind him.

"Well. The humanity is only part of the fun. The other part, as you know, is we are understaffed and you are, of course, my employee," she replied, leaning forward, propping her elbows on the counter of the nurse's station.

"Right, and I'm just a cog in the machine. The poorly oiled machine, I might add. What have I told you about the importance of lubricant?" His innuendo was lacking the old inflection.

"House, you're not just any cog. You're the sturdiest, shiniest cog in the whole hospital," she said facetiously.

"Love to stay and chat, but my twitter page isn't going to update itself." House turned to go, as he does so often these days, without a retort. She watched him walk away for a moment with her blue eyes wounded, taking in a deep breath before calling after him.

"House. I've got a case for you." He spins to look at her. She picks up a file from off of the counter and approaches him, gently shoving it against his chest.

"I already have a case." House states, taking the file but not even bothering to peruse it.

"The guy with athletes foot and a hangover? Foreman already found me and I discharged him."

House begins, looking around, "That could have been any number of-"

"House, take this case. It's interesting. You'll like it." Her voice was firm, as it is every so often, when she's not to be moved on one subject or another. House opened the file and thumbed through it. Cuddy spoke as he read,

"71-year-old patient presents with tremors and chronic intestinal problems. She's on meds to control her cholesterol, blood pressure, Type 2 diabetes, a thyroid condition and a mood disorder but hasn't -"

"Y-y-yeah, says all that in the file."

"She's been to five separate doctor's they're all stumped. The last one, Dr. McMillan, recommended you and she and her husband just drove here from Albany so I expect you to at least-"

"I'll take it." House closed the file and made for the elevator. She followed.

"The other doctor's have already ruled out Parkinson's, she wasn't responding to the treatment, in fact she's getting worse, and it would have to be very progressive to have such a rapid onset which is uncommon for someone with her-"

"I said I'd take it." He pressed the call button and waited.

"What tests are you going to run?"

"_Test_. I'm only gonna run one."

"MRI? EMG? At this point she might need an exploratory surgery. The OR is-"

"Phlebotomy." House states not looking at her. He stepped onto the elevator. She held her arm out, stopped the doors from closing.

"You're just going to do blood work? What do you expect to-"

"A good magician never reveals his secrets. If you want an update every five minutes, that's what Foreman's for." She pulled her arm away and took a step back, having been put back in her place as the administrator.

"Lemme know the results," she replied, knowing well that he wouldn't. He disappeared behind the closing doors. Cuddy stared vacantly at the metal paneling for a moment before spinning on her heels and slowly heading back through the clinic and into her office where she would sit and consider how things have changed.

Four hours later, she walked past the conference room adjoined with House's office. She saw it was empty and continued to his office. He sat alone at his desk, hunched in his chair, staring into the glow of his computer monitor. Dusk was shining through the blinds, casting lines on the floor and across his frame. She watched him for a moment, wondering what he was thinking about, though not necessarily wanting to know what he was looking at on his computer. His chin was buried in his palm. She watched as he looked down, running his hand over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. She cocked her head absently to one side for a moment. She took one more step further into view. He noticed her before she asked,

"Where's your team?"

"Went home." He looked back to the computer monitor. "13 mentioned something about Nurse Chang's condo but that's really none of my business."

"You've solved the case?" she asked, walking into the room further until she stood in front of his desk.

"No, they just tend to get whiny if I keep them after dark. Or turn into werewolves. I can't remember which." He looked up to the ceiling, pretending to mull it over before looking to her and adding, "And I didn't need them to solve the case."

"So you did solve it? What was it?" She took a step forward, resting her fingertips atop the glass top of his desk.

"Her lithium levels were 2.1. Toxic," he began casually, looking back to his computer. "A normal level is between 0.5 and 1.2 millimoles per liter, as I'm sure _even you_ are aware." She rolled her eyes at him as he continued. "A bit too much can be toxic and too little is ineffective. Which is why people taking drugs containing the stuff usually receive blood tests to check their levels." Her shoulders sank and she sighed as she realized where he was going. "At such a high level the lithium she was taking for her mood disorder could cause tremors, convulsions, confusion, memory problems, coma, and, my favorite symptom, death. Or as the Dutch would say: '…dood!'" He turned to her excitedly before adding. "... that's, ya know, Dutch for death."

"And the drugs she was taking for Parkinson's exacerbated her symptoms." she continued for him. "Wow. Tremors and persistent intestinal problems are classic indicators of lithium intoxication." She shook her head in disappointment "How could five doctors miss this? It's so-" she paused, thinking of the right word.

"Elementary," House finished for her. "The other doctors should have checked for it. I'm sure if Margaret Thatcher knew how to use the internet she could have figured it out herself." He swivels his chair away from the computer to face her. Cuddy slowly took a seat in the chair in front of House's desk.

"If she had, it probably could have saved her insurance company $100,000 in tests and hospitalization fees." She propped her elbow in her lap and her chin in her hand.

"And of course, you're all for saving insurance companies money." She shot him a glare. " But yes. William of Ockham would turn in his grave. Or chew dumbly on his own death shroud," he shrugged. She shot him a fleeting smile. There was a moment where neither of them said anything.

"House," she said his name quietly. "Is everything alright?" He raised his eyes defensively, as if not knowing why she'd even ask.

"I'm fine. I don't need a heart-to-heart."

"You can't be just fine."

"Yep. I'm defying all odds," he replied, leaning back in his seat. "Maybe you shouldn't have worked so hard to get me reinstated if you thought I was still nuts," his tone was casual but his words weren't.

"I don't think you're mentally unstable," she reasoned. "I just think you seem a little more miserable than your usual, caustic, default state of miserable. You're certainly more lackluster than you were before. Or I guess the word I should use is 'appropriate'."

"So that's what this is about?"

"What?"

"You want me to tease you. Talk about your ass, your cup size. Insert some clever sexual innuendo into your otherwise boring work environment."

"Please," she scoffed. "And I would hardly call it clever."

"You miss it," his voice was both playful and accusatory.

"Well," she glanced down at her feet, not caring how bashful she seemed, perhaps seeming so on purpose. "Why _have_ you stopped?" He appeared unprepared to answer the question for all of one second before recovering.

"My heart's not in it," he shrugged. "Maybe you should check with Taub. He's probably into Jews with back. Although I think he's still on the strait and narrow."

"House. I don't _expect_ you to open up to me. I just thought-" she stopped herself, unsure of how to finish that sentence. She knew she couldn't get him to talk to her without leverage. She used to simply be able to wave a prescription in her hand and he'd be forced to spill. But now that she had nothing he wanted, it proved much more difficult to get anything out of him. But something had happened a year ago. Something involving his hallucinating sex between the two of them. Maybe something more than that. And she hoped that they could confront it. But neither of them had spoken of it since his return. In fact, they've hardly spoken about anything but work. "I just thought I'd try," she kept her voice light, to avoid seeming too serious. She didn't want to make things any more awkward than they already were.

"Wilson's got the alarmist pestering covered. But thanks for trying." He wanted her out. Twelve months ago, he had confronted his feelings and she hadn't. And that made it uncomfortable, which was something he was sure she was aware of. But what she was not aware of and therefore could not understand was what he had lost. For a brief moment, he'd obtained something that had illuded him for years: his own readiness to be happy. Then he lost it. He lost her. He'd had her briefly, if only in his mind. And now he could barely stand to look at her. "Is there something else?" he asked, his eyebrows high, wrinkling his forehead. "'Cause I was about to beat my high score in Tetris." She sighed, getting up from the chair.

"Don't you ever get tired of this?" Her voice was weathered and frustrated.

"What, Tetris?" he asked, knowing well that it was not what she meant at all. "Yeah but they have a really handy pause button."

"Tired of shutting people out," she corrected. "Or of deflecting every personal question with a joke.

"-Don't you get tired of deflecting every joke with a personal question?" he interjected.

"-Or tired of _us_?" She hadn't really meant to say it quite like that. But it was already out there. She could see it piqued his interest. So she pressed on, against her better judgment. "Tired of never being on the same page. Tired of never being ready at the same time. One of us is always doing the chasing. And the other is always running from it." House sat, watching her with the gaze of his deep-sea eyes, shadowed by his brow, which hung low over them. "It's like something Fitzgerald would write." He breathed a short nervous laugh.

"So this is you chasing me?" He smiled amusedly. She opened her mouth to deny it, but stopped herself, realizing the irony; she'd be the one running. She made an unintentional pout (a facial expression he'd admired for 20 years). He let the smile stay on his mouth unintentionally, as he appreciated the jut of her lower lip and the crease that it made her in chin.

She ignored the desire to cower as he watched her, feeling smaller under his stare. She always felt as if he were picking her apart. He notices everything.

"I guess I am."

"You're not very good at it."

"I usually don't have to be."

"I assumed as much." He smiled faintly. "So what is it that you want from me exactly?" He was almost smiling, as intensely uncomfortable as the conversation made him; he was enjoying watching her squirm.

"I don't know."

"Come on. You just said all that. It was a nice little speech. And now you need to back it up with something."

"Like what?"

"You tell me."

"You want me to kiss you?"

"Always." The familiarity of the moment frightened him. He resisted the urge to pinch her to find out if she was real or not.

She rested her fingertips on the edge of his desk, dragging them along the glass surface as she slowly made her way to his side of the desk. He looked down at the skirt of her black dress from where he sat in his office chair. It was one of those low-cut ones, no doubt purchased with him in mind. He reached out his hand and pinched just an inch of fabric, gently tugging it towards him. She took a step closer to him and he turned his chair to face her more directly. He tugged harder until she took another step and she was so close her knees were touching his knees. He dropped his hand just a little, until it reached the skin of her lower thigh. He moved his finger up against the smooth skin of her leg. Just underneath the fabric of her dress. He did the same with his other hand until he could feel the lace of her panties with his fingertips. He wrapped his hands around to the back of her, looking into her face the whole time, pulling her closer until she had to wrap her hands on his shoulders. She brought her knee up and rested it on the leather cushioning between his legs and leaned forward, bringing her face so closer to hers, she felt the breath from his nose on her lips. Briefly, she placed her lips on his. Resting them there for just a moment before letting her tongue leaver her mouth and graze his lower lip. Just as he leaned forward to deepen the kiss, she suddenly sprang backward, sliding her knee of the seat and placing both feet on the ground, turning to look out the window where she was relieved to see that no one was watching.

He took a brief moment to recover from what had just transpired and then a faint smile crossed his lips. "Close the blinds," he said.

xxxx

7 months later.

"House. We should talk," she said, looking into his tired face from where she stood in the doorway of his apartment. Her face was vacant an expression. At least to anyone but House. He could see the trepidation. He could see the disappointment.

"Yeah, I figured. I watched that Quantum leap marathon last night too. A lot to discuss," he joked half-heartedly.

"Can we sit?" She moved past him and into his apartment.

"If by 'talk' you meant 'make out', then yes. We can sit," he had almost annoyed himself with the statement.

"House," her voice was tired and frustrated. "You know why I'm here," she looked up at him sadly.

"Not to talk about Quantum leap," he feigned disappointment. "I have an idea. Really, more of an inkling."

"You've been avoiding me," she looked down at her feet as she walked a bit further into his apartment. Then looked up to him again before adding, "We haven't spent a night together in two weeks."

"We did the other night."

"You left right after," she sighed. "You don't answer your phone when I call you," she pressed on, having thought up a list on the drive over.

"I don't answer my phone when _anyone_ calls me," he reasoned, sounding annoyed.

"You did a month ago," she insisted.

"A month ago, we were still in the 'late night booty-call' stage of our relationship."

"House. Talk to me. Please." Her head tilted to one side. She furrowed her brow, pleading with him.

"You're unhappy," he stated, looking down into her face. His mirroring the serious nature of hers. He was already beginning to make up his mind on what he would do next.

"I'm unhappy with the way things have been between us the past few weeks," she nodded.

"This is the way I operate, you know that. You knew it three months ago, before you started seeing me."

"Yeah, I know you. The insensitivity, I was dealing with. You needing space, I can deal with that too. But you can't just opt out of the relationship for weeks at a time and not talk to me and expect me to be okay with it," her voice was beginning to pick up traces of anger. "Just tell me if it's something I did," she added tiredly. "Or something we can fix. I can't keep waiting around for you."

"Maybe you shouldn't," he responded, tilting his head down.

"What?"

"I'm not going to change," he let out a short scoff of a laugh.

"Don't," she said angrily. "Don't make this about me expecting you to change. Or me unable to accept House being House. We were making it work. And then you just gave up. Out of nowhere. I tried to give you a little space. But I don't know if you're ever coming back. Or if I should just give up on you too." She took a breath. She almost felt guilty as she watched him make an annoyed face out of discomfort. But she reminded herself that he brought this on himself. "House, I know this is hard for you." He rolled his eyes, standing up, mumbling something about needing a drink. She ignored it. "I know you don't like to open up and I rarely ask that of you. But right now, tell me how this is going to end."

"Like this," he stated, making his mind up about what he had to do next.

"What?"

"It's going to end like this," he shrugged. He poured himself a glass of gin and took a large sip. He was definitely going to need some liquid courage to do what he was about to do to her. "The inevitable blow up. I was always going to hurt you. And you were always going to get fed up. You did know that, right? You had to know that."

"This is you self destructing as usual," she stressed, letting out a long and frustrated breath. "I'm just asking you to talk to me."

"Exactly. I don't talk to you enough. I drink too much. You can't take me to any work functions because I'll embarrass you. All these things you've complained about before and none of them are going to change," he took another drink, finishing the glass and beginning to pour another. "And your daughter."

"Don't make this about her," she spat. She was always afraid it would come down to this. They had never had a discussion about Rachel. She thought that maybe they'd had a mutual understanding about her. That they would figure it out as they went along. That she never expected anything from him. She braced herself to finally hear what she had always suspected but had been to afraid to ask.

"She's a big part of it. In a few years, she's going to wonder who this House fellow is and why she can't count on him for anything. And why he makes her mother scream in the next room," he smiled to himself.

"This has nothing to do with her," she reasoned. "You're great with her. In your own way," she clarified. "Though you'd never admit it. You're just _afraid_ to let yourself be happy."

"Okay. If that makes it easier for you, then lets go with that," he shrugged, gulping from his glass. It wasn't the response she had expected. She hated him in that moment, not even bothering to argue with her.

"You are such an ass," she almost laughed the sentence. How could she have let herself get involved with him like this? "There's no coming back from this." Her voice was stern as she motioned towards the door with her finger.

"That's the idea," he responded, taking a drink to keep from simply dryly gulping down air.

He listened to her let out a short breath. He sat himself down on the couch, not watching her go. He heard the door shut timidly behind her when she left. He finished his drink. Then another. And one more. Then passed out on the couch.

The next day, House stood in the alcove in front of Wilson's office, staring into the glint of light on the silver lettering that sat two feet from his face. He was debating whether to turn the door handle and face the inevitable conversation. House stood for a moment, thumping his cane against the linoleum. He pursed his lips to the side as he played through the lecturing in his head. He took a quick look behind him, ready to turn around and leave this conversation for another day but before he could, he heard the click and turn of the door knob and watched the door swing open to reveal his best friend standing in front of him.

"Oh," Wilson said, surprised to see House standing there. "I was just coming to find you," he said, glancing around.

"Yeah, I figured this would be the first place you'd look," House responded with a nod.

"Are you just now getting here?" Wilson checked his watch. "It's almost noon. Don't you have to turn in your quarterlies today?"

"-Oh, you're so cute when you lecture." House moved past him, limping into Wilson's office, immediately going to face out the window.

"-Not that you'd actually do them anyway." Wilson shut the door behind him, watching his friend for a moment before speaking. "So, how'd the talk go?"

"Doesn't anyone read my blog?"

"She didn't tell me she was going to talk to you. She didn't have to. What with you practically ignoring her for two weeks." Wilson propped his hands on his hips, as he usually does.

"Ten days," House corrected, over his shoulder.

"Well, how'd it go?"

"We broke up." House walked over to the couch, plopping himself down, resting his cane on the arm.

"What?" Wilson's voice was a high, incredulous whisper.

"I broke up with her," House stretched his arms out, resting them on the tops of the couch cushions.

"You what?" Wilson's whisper was meant to simulate loudness without actually yelling. It made House want to hit him with his cane. "You broke up… with _her_? Why?"

"It wasn't going anywhere."

"Yeah, you made sure of that." House rolled his eyes, turning to pick some lint off of a cushion and flicking it on the floor. "Okay. You freaked out," Wilson reasons. "And you were irrational."

"Quite rational actually. She was upset with just about everything I did. Or said. We fought constantly." House said flippantly.

"Yeah. Its called having a girlfriend," Wilson deadpanned.

"She has a toddler," House stated, as if there were no need for explanation. Wilson waited for one before asking,

"And?"

"Am I supposed to _rear_ her? Or be the fun uncle?" House laughed.

"Whatever you feel comfortable with," Wilson shrugged.

"I don't want the pseudo-family. I don't want to ride off into the sunset in her Barbie dream convertible," he turned to look out the window and onto the balcony.

"Somehow I doubt that's what she had planned," Wilson crossed his arms. "You don't want to be happy."

"Do you ever get tired of regurgitating the same, tired lines over and-"

"-You don't want to fall into a routine or lose what you think drives you, makes you special. Same thing that happened with Stacy."

"Cut it out," House sat forward, wiping his face in his hands.

"And you don't want to accept that you're _that_ predictable. But it's true. And I should have seen it coming. Maybe I could have-"

"It's done," House said quickly, looking up.

"House don't." Wilson shook his head. "You need to think about this."

"I did. For ten days," House said, widening his eyes with false sincerity.

"So you don't love her?" House breathes out a short scoff of laughter. "Well?"

"That's not the issue," House said, rubbing his forehead.

"So you just think you're better off without her," Wilson offered.

"I'm better off alone."

"It's just easier being alone," Wilson began lecturing. "It's easier when your happiness isn't so contingent upon someone else. When you're alone, you know you'll be miserable. When you're with Cuddy, you're happy but you don't know for how long. There's too many unknown variables. It's not predictable. It's scares the hell out of you."

"Or I want to sleep with my mother," House offered casually. Wilson's face contorted into one of sheer confusion. "Analyze that, Freudy pants."

"House-"

"I don't want to be in a relationship," he interjected. "With her or anyone else."

"Bullshit," Wilson laughed. "The second she starts seeing someone else-- which she will-- you'll be all over her."

"Nope."

"So if she starts dating someone tomorrow, you'll leave her alone? You wouldn't care?" Wilson raised his eyebrows, knowing his friend all too well.

"You like needy women. She's perfect for you: just got dumped. Maybe you should ask her out." House opened the door of Wilson's office and walked out into the hallway. "But give it a few days, you vulture." Wilson shook his head as his friend limped around the corner and out of sight.

Late in the afternoon, Wilson made his way down to Cuddy's office. Standing in front of her assistant's desk. He watched her through her office doors as she looked down at her paperwork, writing something. He watched her as she stopped what she was doing and ran her fingers down the bridge of her nose. He took a breath before opening the door. She looked up to see him entering, sighing immediately upon seeing him.

"Not in the mood," she said, staring at him blankly.

"I know," Wilson nods. "I just wanted to see how you're doing."

"I'm fine," she responds, with a transparent smile stretched across her face. "Peachy."

"Good." Wilson stands, nodding with his hands in his pockets.

"Is there something else?" She stares with raised eyebrows.

"You want me to go?"

"I'm kind of busy," she glanced down at the small stack of folders on her desk.

"Yeah," he said. "Of course. But. My girlfriend broke up with me a few weeks ago," Wilson stated, taking a step further towards her desk.

"I'm… sorry," Cuddy replied with her brow furrowed, as if it were a question.

"We only went out a month but," he let his voice trail off with a shrug. "I figured since neither of us have anyone else, maybe you might want to get dinner tonight." Cuddy opened her mouth to respond taking a breath of air. "Or tomorrow. You know, as friends. We haven't really talked in a while."

"I do have someone else." She corrected. "My daughter." She needlessly rearranged a few papers on her desk.

"Someone you can talk to. Or at least someone who can conjugate their verbs properly," he smiles.

"Wilson, I know what you're up to. And I'm fine," she insisted, attempting to sound convincing. "So stop it."

"You'd be doing me a favor. I've done nothing but work the past couple of weeks." She thought about it for a moment, releasing a long breath of air from her ballooned lungs.

"Alright," she smiled faintly. "But no break-up talk."

"Deal. How about six?" She nodded. He returned the nod and turned to walk out the door. Cuddy watched him go. The smile faded from her lips. She wasn't sure going out to dinner with the best friend of the guy who just dumped her was such a good idea. Even if he was the nicest guy she knew. Even if he was only trying to soften the blow and get her mind off of the wet, slimy pieces of broken eggshell that was her heart. But she reminded herself that Wilson is her friend too. And sometimes you need a friend.

She picked up the phone to call her babysitter.


	2. Second

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the House M.D. characters or any property of NBC Universal/Fox. I do not profit from their use. I'm not trying to steal them. I'm just playing with 'em.

xxxx

The background noise of the restaurant was a low hum of discreet chatter, glasses clinking and knives and forks tapping against the china. The distinct scrape of a spoon grazing the bottom of a bowl of soup. Cuddy tried to ignore that Wilson had picked this particular restaurant but she heard every little bit of this ambient noise as if it were taunting her. Reminding her. She stared at her menu vacantly, seeing the words as only jumbled symbol or out-of-focus blurs. When she saw something familiar in her peripheral, her eyes darted quickly to the left side of the menu in a panic, her head jerked to find…. '_House_ Salad'. She sighed, seeing his name in print. She stared at the word, wishing she could will it away.

She perused the menu a moment longer before she began to feel again that her heart was about to pop like someone took a needle to a water balloon as she shot her eyes to the middle of the menu to see… '_House_ Marinara'. She rolled her eyes at her own foolishness. Or at how easy it was for her to get riled up. She never used to get like this over a guy. But she knew this wasn't just any guy. How could he have done this to her? How could he tell her he loved her, _behave_ as if he loved her and then do what he did? Without remorse. Maybe he was always the ass he seemed to be. Maybe there was never any more to him than what meets the eye. It made her cheeks hot simply thinking about it. It made her want to call him up and fire him. She wanted to look across the table and fire his best friend too. She breathed a short beat of a laugh at the thought of doing something so utterly ridiculous.

"Are you okay?" Wilson asked, closing his menu, with his head low.

"Yeah," she smiled, with her lips shut tight: the quintessential disingenuous smile.

"Really?," he asked, tilting his head back. "Because you're scoffing at the menu."

"I just remembered something funny, that's all." She opened her menu back up and began looking through it again.

"Okay," Wilson nodded slowly, watching her for a moment before opening his own menu.

Cuddy found what she wanted on the menu, though it took a bit of extra concentration to do so, and when the waiter came, both she and Wilson ordered their meals and made idle chatter as they waited.

"Oh, I'm going to have to miss Thursday's meeting."

"Why?" she asked, taking a sip of her white wine.

"One of my patients has a lifelong dream to see the Vatican. He's supposed to go in two weeks. But his last cell count wasn't looking so good so he's rescheduled his trip to this Friday. I'm going to see him Thursday."

"That's fine," Cuddy nods. "You'll no doubt miss a good time," she smiled. He returns the smile. "Mr. Millers second meeting," she shook her head.

"Jesus," Wilson sighed with a laugh. "That man."

"He's… interesting," Cuddy nodded her head to either side.

"He reminds me of Charles Nelson Reilly." Cuddy laughed, nodding her agreement. Wilson was glad to see her laugh and admired it for a moment before adding "Did I tell you he asked me out after that meeting?"

"No!" she exclaimed with widened eyes. "What did you say?"

"I thanked him for his interest but I informed him that I am not interested in seeing other men." Cuddy laughed, propping her face in her hand.

"Then what?"

"He asked me to walk him to his car."

"Oh my god," she chuckled, placing her hand over her mouth. "And?"

"And," Wilson stalled by nodding his head for a few seconds. "-And I walked him to his car." Cuddy erupted into laughter once again. "He said it wasn't safe for a man of his 'gentile demeanor' to walk alone through the night," Wilson spoke the last part, imitating Mr. Miller's effeminate southern accent, then laughed along with Cuddy.

"Wow," Cuddy said, her laughter beginning to slow. "That's probably true," she nodded.

"Yeah," Wilson agreed, taking a sip of his drink. "Probably is." There was a moment of silence between the two of them. Cuddy took another sip from her glass, trying to keep her mind on the image of Wilson being asked out by Mr. Miller and not on the memory of House being the one sitting across from her. She looked around her, keeping her mind busy. Then she spied the same attractive waitress who had served she and House two months ago and it was too late, the memory was dragging her subconscious, kicking and screaming, back to the night that she and House had dined in this restaurant.

"What's up with you?" he'd asked her, after watching her stare absently into her drink.

"Is that your way of asking me if I'm okay?" she waited until she finished the sentence to look up at him, with casually raised eyebrows.

"Sure," he shrugged.

"It's nothing."

"The use of the noun 'it' suggests otherwise," he pressed.

"Just work," she smiles the no-teeth-showing smile. "I'm a little stressed out."

"You know what's good for that?"

"Do I want to know?" she laughed.

"Stress ball," he stated with a nod. "I have some if you'd like to borrow them."

"Is that a euphemism?" she laughed.

"No, it's just what it sounds like," he insisted with a strait face. "When you get stressed, I'll let you squeeze my balls." An immediate giggle bubbled up from her and she lifted the back of her hand to cover her mouth. She glanced around to make sure no one had heard him.

"God," she breathed quietly, leaning in. "Your sense of humor has not matured past college."

"Comforting isn't it?" he smiled, watching her face closely.

"Kind of," she admitted with a high-pitched voice, nodding to either side and taking a sip of her drink.

"And you still laugh," he insisted.

"Well I don't want to be rude," she said, playing coy.

"You love it," he challenged.

"Maybe." She took a sip of her drink, her eyes flitting around the room to anything but him as she sipped. She considered how she'd ended up sitting across the table from a man like him, five months deep into a relationship. He was childish, rude, and almost impossible to get along with. He gave the impression that he didn't care about anyone but himself. And he certainly didn't care what anyone thought of him. He was almost her exact opposite. But perhaps that was what made them work. They were like two corresponding puzzle pieces: their jagged edges fitting almost perfectly together. Though sometimes, even two pieces that are meant to fit together don't, depending on how you spin them. Depending on your perception of the puzzle. Even when the entire unsolved puzzle is sitting in front of you in a big pile of colored cardboard confetti, it can still be difficult to figure it all out. And sometimes you just don't have the energy.

"Cuddy?" Wilson's voice brought her back into the present, his concerned face fading back into focus.

"Hm?" She looked up from the spot on the tablecloth that she'd been staring at.

"You alright?" She simply sighed in response, immediately picking up her glass to take another sip. How was she supposed to respond that question? "Right." He stated, remembering that, of course, she was not alright. He leaned in closer to her. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Nope," she smiled, though it almost pained her to do so.

"Well." He looked around briefly, unsure of himself. "Do you mind if I do?"

"Wilson," she sighed his name heavily.

"I just want to say," he began loudly, attempting to drown out any protest that may arise in the next few seconds. "-that he is an idiot."

"Thank you," she smiled, again, painfully.

"Really," he holds his hand out, parallel to the table, to stress his point. She smiles in response, tilting her head to the side, appreciating the gesture. "A complete moron," he added, swiping his levitating hand to the side, as if sealing his opinion on the matter. She laughed to be nice. He could tell she was uncomfortable. Not with him but with teetering on the brink of a conversation about House. He understood. He knew that the day after being dumped, it felt like there was no middle ground between completely forgetting and reminiscing in tears. And right now she needed to forget. But he almost couldn't help it. His own feelings about what House had done kept rearing their way into the forefront of his consciousness.

"I appreciate your saying so," she said with one solid nod and a polite smile.

"I know you want to get your mind off of it though, so we can talk about something else." And they did. They talked about budget cuts and Wilson's practice and the nursing staff, laughing occasionally. And then their food arrived and they talked about upcoming lectures and journal articles. They talked until they were both full and sat, satisfied, in their post-dinner relaxed conversation. She felt, for the most part, successfully un-reminded of her failed relationship. But, of course, not completely because almost everything reminded her of House in some odd, tangential way. Like the way the lighting fixtures reminded her of House's cane. But things like that couldn't really be helped.

"Are you still going to go to that St. Louis conference?" The conference. She'd completely forgotten. She swallowed hard, remembering when she'd made that commitment. She sunk into her chair, letting her perfect posture falter momentarily and she heaved out a heavy spout of air. It was three months ago. She could picture herself storming into House's apartment behind him, practically slamming the door.

"You are unbelievable!" she'd yelled at him.

"Yeah, you've mentioned that before. Once last night and twice this morning." She let out a deep groan.

"You know, I thought that maybe just this once you would act like a normal human being but now I realize that you are _incapable_," she stressed the word. "-of acting like anything but a self centered _child_."

"Good," he said, sounding lethargic. "Now that you see that, we can move on." She groaned again.

"What is it, exactly, that makes you hate every other human being so much?"

"I don't hate _every_ other human being," he corrected, hooking his cane on the molding in the ceiling and limping over to her.

"Seriously. What made you like this?"

"Where is this coming from?" he said, almost amusedly.

"The way you acted tonight. The one night I would expect that you would behave. As a _favor_ to me. Now that people know we're dating, the way you act in public is a huge reflection on me. And interacting with the public is big part of my job, House."

"You're right. I'm sorry," he took another step closer to her. His eyes were lustful. His apology was almost meaningless. He slid his hands onto her hips. She slapped them away, stepping back.

"Stop it. House. I'm serious."

"I didn't think I was _that_ bad," he argued, knowing it was moot.

"You told a donor that his money went towards cosmetic surgery." She paused before adding. "for my _ass_."

"I meant it as a compliment!" he chuckled.

"House!" the shrill sound stopped him from saying anything right away. He thought about how he'd often compared her to a Hyena when she got like that and smiled faintly to himself. "Why do you have to make my life so much harder?" her voice was quiet as she looked up at him. Even though she was standing in high-heeled shoes, she was still much shorter. He liked the image of her looking up at him. But her eyes were sorrowful at the moment. It was enough to make him want to make it better. And the dress she was wearing, a short black one that cupped her breasts in just the right way and revealed a generous portion of her legs so they appeared in front of him like the stems of tulips. He had to make up with her tonight.

"I know," he said almost somberly, with is head hung low. "It's something I need to work on," he admitted. A laugh escaped her mouth, he searched her face to gauge how she meant it. "What?" he asked, when he couldn't figure it out.

"You'll never change."

"Probably not," he said simply. "But maybe I can bury the urge to say inappropriate things deep down, repressing anything that feels natural to me to the point where I'm tempted to murder you in your sleep." He said this casually as if it were a real viable option. It was all part of his humor, which she'd always loved. "You know, like a normal boyfriend." She laughed, but then quickly stopped herself, not wanting to give in so easily. "I'll do anything to get laid", he reasoned, lifting his hand to caress her bare arm.

"Not tonight," she said, backing away from his touch.

"Your mother's in town and offered to stay with Rachel all night and you're going to waste this golden opportunity?"

"How else are you going to learn?" she smiled, letting her tongue briefly paint her pale rose upper lip before retreating back into her mouth. His lips parted slightly, wanting to protest, but not thinking of any words. His eyesight fell to the tops of her breasts, rounded and plump, rising and falling with each breath. She knew what he was thinking about and she made up her mind to make him suffer. "Goodnight, House." She turned to go, only to be practically pounced on from behind as he gripped her forearms.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, willing to give her whatever she wanted in that moment.

"For you not to be a complete ass," she said, enjoying the power she had over him.

"Well, we both know that's not going to happen," he responded before dipping his head down to kiss her neck from behind her. "But maybe I can work on just being a partial ass." She giggled. "Two thirds of an ass." She laughed harder. "Maybe just one cheek. Is that okay? Can I be just one cheek?" She giggled girlishly but didn't respond. He buried his nose in the nape of her neck, taking in the smell of her. Her mother had taught her to dab vanilla extract on her skin when she was just a teenager (and no doubt going on numerous dates). He made a mental note to thank her mother later.

"I want you to go to a work function every once in a while without me having to beg you. And without me having to be terrified of something you'll say once you get there."

"It's a deal. I'll be good." His tongue grazed her shoulder blade. She considered surrendering right then, spinning around and letting him get off easy. But she held her ground.

"And I'm just supposed to take your word for it?" she asked, weakly squirming, forcing him to hold onto her tighter.

"Want a pinky promise?" he asked, sifting her hair to the side before kissing her on her neck behind her ear. She finally turned herself around, though he still had a firm grasp on her.

"I'm not asking you this as your boss." She reached up to cup the sides of his head behind his ears, letting her thumbs roam over his cheeks.

"I know," his voice was deep and raspy.

"I just want to know," she looked down at his chin bashfully as she spoke. "-that this is important to you."

"What is?"

"Doing the _bare minimum-_" she stressed the words. "-to maintain our dysfunctional relationship," she explained. He heard in her voice the rare trace of her vulnerability. He only ever heard it when she was talking to him. He was almost positive that it was his exclusive privilege to hear it.

"Yeah. It is," he insisted. "I'll even," he paused thinking through what he was about to suggest. He looked down at her chest again. He'd need a hail marry pass. "I'll even go to one of those lame conferences held in crappy hotel banquet halls that still stink of the previous night's prom. And the thick stench of corporate team building." She chuckled as her finger absently twirled a lock of his hair.

"I don't believe you."

"Is that a challenge?"

"Yes." She widened her eyes, playfully intimidating him.

"Then consider it done. When's the next good one? I'll be sure to bring my checklist on effective use of power point presentations."

"Wilson's speaking at one in St. Louis in a few months."

"_Missouri_? I thought I'd at least get to go somewhere cool."

"Hey, you're the one who said-"

"Fine," he interjected, just wanting to get to the good stuff. "I'll go." Slowly, a big smile stretched across her face. He enjoyed it.

And yet. There was a familiar nagging feeling in the back of his head. It begged for his attention but he marginalized it to the farthest reaches of his brain, as he had been doing for the past four months of their relationship. Only for it to return and haunt him in another foreign moment of happiness.

"So," he said as if it were its own sentence, as he closed the gap between their faces and their noses were almost touching. She stood on the tips of her toes until the tips of their noses did touch. "Are you going to let me have what I want?"

"You don't deserve it." She cocked her head to the side.

"Never stopped you before." She let out a short breath of laughter before moving her lips over his lips and kissing him. He pulled her closer by her hips, until there was no more space between them.

Cuddy's eyes welled up with salt water until spilling over and rolling down to her cheekbone before being quickly wiped away. She composed herself with a deep breath.

"Are you okay?" Wilson asked, leaning far in to the middle of the table.

"Would you stop asking me that?" she said with a laugh as her hand made sure there wasn't any moisture left on her face.

"Right. Sorry." Wilson looked over to see that two women at the table to their right were staring at Cuddy, whispering to each other, likely guessing at would could be wrong with her. "Do you mind?" Wilson said to them before turning his attention back to Cuddy.

"Wilson," she chided half-heartedly.

"Staring is rude," he insisted with an amused smile. She sincerely returned the smile. "Also one of those women is friends with my ex wide." Cuddy laughed. The waiter brought the check.

"I got it." Wilson said, taking it from him.

"No, Wil-"

"Please. I dragged you here. You had a miserable time."

"No. No, I'm glad you took me out," she insisted. "And I always appreciate your company." He could tell from her wide-eyed expression that it was important to her that he believed her. So he did. And she could tell that it was important to him that he pay the bill, so she let him and they left. Wilson walked her wordlessly to her car. When they got to the spot along the street where she'd parallel parked, she turned to him.

"Thank you," she said. "Really." He pulled her into a hug. And he closed his eyes as he breathed in the scent of her floral shampoo when her hair shrouded over his face.

"Any time," he replied into the thick of her dark curls. She pulled away.

"And to answer your question, I don't think I'm going to go to the conference. I don't know what I'll tell the committee about canceling so late." He nodded and watched her walk to the drivers side of the car before adding,

"You sure? It might be good to get away. And you've already got the plane ticket." She paused after opening her car door.

"You might be right," she said, emitting a sad laugh. "I'll think about it. Goodnight, Wilson."

"Goodnight Cuddy." She got into her car and he watched her pull away as he stood on the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets.


	3. Third

Disclaimer: House M.D. and all of its characters belong to Fox and David Shore. I make no money off of writing this. Even though I spend more time doing this than actual work.

xxxx

"House," Wilson announced, annoyed to see House propped against the wall beside the door of his apartment, twirling his cane. He sifted through his key chain before finding the right key and unlocking the door, pushing it open, letting House limp in in front of him.

"You don't sound too happy to see me," House responded, looking around suspiciously.

"What do you want, House?" Wilson asked, with a sigh, laying his briefcase and keys down on the tabletop in his kitchen.

"I stand corrected," House remarked, sarcastically. "You seem simply delighted. Where've you been?" House eyed carefully.

"Dinner," Wilson stated, placing his hands on his hips.  

"With who?" House pressed. Wilson didn't see any reason to lie. Especially after what House had said earlier in his office about not caring what she does.

"Cuddy," he responded. House nodded and didn't show any sign of being bothered. Instead, he stood without saying anything, thinking for a moment.

"So you _did_ ask her out," he joked. "How was the date? She puts out on the first date, you know. Actually before the first date, in my case, but in her defense: I was pretty difficult to resist." Wilson just rolled his eyes.

"House," he began to argue.

"How is she?" House interrupted, changing his tone to a more serious one.

"Fine," Wilson stated. It wasn't necessarily the truth, but then again, House didn't really deserve to know how she was as far as Wilson was concerned.

"Good," House nodded again. House turned to walk over to the couch and plop down on it. "What'd she say?"

"House, I've got some work to do. And I'm tired."

"_Two_ excuses. Wow. You really want me out. What did she say?"

"Nothing about you." It wasn't really a lie.

"Right. What could she possibly have to say about me?" House responded sarcastically.

"If you really want to know what she thinks of you right now then ask her yourself. But I'm pretty sure you can guess."

"That bad, huh?"

"Is this why you came over here?"

"Of course not. I didn't know you were having dinner with her. How could I _possibly_ know you'd do exactly what you always do and try to comfort a needy woman."

"She's not needy. She's upset," Wilson corrected.

"Same thing," House chuckled.

"-And she's my friend. I was there for her."

"Yeah, I know," House responded, looking down at the floor. "So she really didn't say anything about me?"

"She didn't seem too keen on the subject of you. So I avoided it," Wilson still stood with his hands on his hips, not bothering to sit down or get comfortable in his own apartment. He didn't want House staying long. It occurred to Wilson that perhaps House had another reason for wanting this Intel. "Don't tell me you're having second thoughts."

"I'm confused. Don't tell you about the second thoughts or don't have them?"

"House," Wilson warned.

"I'm not having second thoughts," House said, annoyed.

"Right. How could you have second thoughts when you haven't even had first thoughts?" Wilson deadpanned sarcastically.

"Clever." House walked to the couch and plopped himself down.

"House, what are you doing? Do you even know?" Wilson reluctantly followed him, but did not sit. Instead he stood, hovering over him.

"At this very moment? I'm putting my feet on your dead girlfriend's coffee table." House said, doing exactly that.

"You say you love her, you break up with her, and then you become obsessed with her," Wilson nutshells, ignoring that House had not actually answered his question.

"I'm not _obsessed_ with her," House argued.

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I can't drop by my best friend's house to be criticized at length whenever I feel like it?"

"You're here because you care about her."

"I'm here because I'm curious," House corrected.

"I agree." Wilson gave a quick sideways nod as he spoke.

"Can you at least get me a drink before you launch into your explanation," House whined. Wilson ignored him.

"You _are_ here because you're curious. You have no idea why you broke up with her. So you came here so I would call you on your bullshit and _tell_ you why you broke up with her. You roll your eyes at my analysis and my lecturing, but the truth is you need it. You're dependent on it. I'm not afraid to tell you the truth. And you're someone who spends much of his life in desperate search of it."

House sat, with his brow wrinkled and his eyelids fully open, watching Wilson and having little to say in response.

"You spent more than three weeks in your psych rotation, didn't you?" House responded after a few moments had passed.

"House, go home. I've got work to do," Wilson sighed. House used his cane as leverage to pry himself off of the couch and limped to the door as Wilson followed closely behind him. As House opened the door, he turned back to Wilson.

"Why _do_ you think I broke up with her," he asked, his voice softer than usual. "Not that I _need_ to hear it," he added, mocking Wilson for suggesting it.

"You're scared of happiness," Wilson shrugged. "Whether you realize it or not."

House paused for a moment before jokingly responding, "Yeah. Maybe I should break up with snakes too. They're way scarier."

"Honestly, House, I think _you_ need to figure the reason out for yourself. Preferably _before _you start begging her to take you back."

"Don't hold your breath on that one. You'd die. Of asphyxiation. And not the fun, noose around the neck while 'arm wrestling with Henry Longfellow', kind of asphyxiation."

"Goodnight, House."

"Night, Wilson," House said as he limped through the threshold and into the hallway."

"Oh, House. Are you still planning on going to that Conference?" Wilson called after him, as House limped down the hall.

"What conference?"

"The St. Louis one. You told me you were going. It's in two weeks."

"Oh," House said, looking off into space, remembering. "Why? Is she going?"

"I don't think so," Wilson said.

"Neither am I," Wilson shrugged.

"It might be nice if you went," Wilson suggested. "-to give Cuddy a break. Plus you've already got the plane ticket." House stood considering it for a moment, before tiredly nodding and then turning around wordlessly and walking out the door. Wilson watched him go before retreating back into his apartment and shutting the door.

House walked out onto the sidewalk under a yellow veil of light cast down by the overhanging streetlamp. He stopped to feel the chill fall breeze against his face and let a deep intake of air balloon his lungs as he closed his eyes. He listened to the paper-crinkling sound of wind rustling the browned leaves of a nearby tree. He opened his eyes. He walked over to where his motorcycle was propped along the street and stood, staring at it for a moment.

"No!" he heard her laughter echo in his memory. "I'm not getting on that thing!" He shook his head in one short jerk, ignoring the memory, before mounting his bike, starting his engine and taking off down the street.

He made his way down the roads, well above the speed limits and past known police traps, not caring if he were pulled over. Not caring if suddenly something pulled out in front of him and he crashed and went flying into a brick wall, losing all of his teeth, and some of his brains. He didn't care. He felt freedom for the first time in months. The freedom of having nothing to lose.

But something was tugging at him. Literally, pulling the leather of his motorcycle jacket taut around his waist. He glanced down briefly to find that it was only his imagination. Or only in his memory, rather. The feeling of Cuddy's arms pressing into him, wrapped around him as they whizzed down the Princeton streets.

"No!" he heard her laugh again. "I'm not getting on the back of that thing," she'd said to him five months ago.

"You want to walk?" he threatened.

"I'm wearing a skirt, House. A tight one," she complained.

"You're the one who lost her car keys." he responded. Then looked down at her skirt that was snug against her hips. "I guess you'll have to hike it up, huh?" he laughed.

"It's raining!" She complained.

"Barely," he said, looking around as drips and drops speckled the pavement of the parking lot.

"You're a jerk," she said half playfully and half pissed off.

"I'm a _what_? A _jerk_? I think you're the first to call me a thing like that, Ms. Cuddy," he said, extending the helmet out to her. "Just get on." She stared at the helmet, moving the bottom part of her jaw from side to side, considering it.

"You took my keys. Didn't you?" she said, straitening her posture as she put it together. He smiled at her, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled her keys out. She widened her eyes upon seeing them and lunged at them. "House!" she yelled when he pulled them away from her. "I was looking for those all morning, I had to take a taxi to work!"

"Poor you," he said with a pout before retracting it and adding "If you didn't wake up to leave for work at the crack of dawn, you could've gone with me," he said with raised eyebrows and his lips folded into his mouth. "And if you keep standing here, it's just going to start raining harder." He extended both her keys and the helmet. "I'm not going to make you." She snatched her keys immediately, eyeing the helmet for a moment longer. "But It'll be fun," he shrugged. She snatched the helmet from him angrily.

"Turn around," she said in a huff, gripping the bottom of her skirt.

"I've seen you naked," he argued.

"Turn around," she insisted.

"Right," he said, turning his head to face out at the rows of cars that had to park far beyond his superior handicapped spot. "You're a classy woman," he said sarcastically. "I forgot."

"Shut up," she said from behind him. House adjusted the rear view mirror and watched as she pulled her skirt up, exposing the smooth skin of her upper thighs, glancing around nervously to see if anyone was looking. He smiled. Finally, he put the mirror back in place as she moved to climb on the back of the bike, her legs spread open and pressing her inner thighs against him.

"Hold on, to me" he said, just before she wrapped her arms around him. "Wouldn't want you to go flying off of this thing if we crash," he said with a sadistic smile.

"What?" she asked, just before he started the engine and the wheels screeched as they burst into action, speeding through the lot and onto the street. "House!" She hugged him tighter. He really only did it to give her a scare; he slowed down almost immediately once they were on the street. He didn't want to freak her out to the point where she'd never ride with him again. And he didn't want to hurt her, certainly, should he lose control of his vehicle. She accused him of driving like a grandma to get him to go faster, which he did. She enjoyed it, even though it frightened her. He could tell from the way she would tighten her grip on him.

House was drawn from his memories after hearing the loud honk of someone's horn from behind him. It startled him and he looked up to see that the red light he had been idling at was now green. He pressed down on the gas pedal, screeching to as start once more as he flew down the streets and onto his own street before parking. He got off his bike, turning off the ignition and releasing his kickstand. He limped to his apartment, unlocking the door and walking inside. He tossed his cane onto the couch, his keys onto the coffee table.

He turned on his television and walked to his liquor cabinet, taking out one of his two glasses and pouring himself a little Gin. He went to plop himself down on his couch, sipping at his drink and letting the late night TV wash over him in waves of flashing lights. He stared blankly, absently, empty. He brought his drink to face to take another swallow but stopped just short of his mouth, looking down into the pool of clear liquid in his glass. He thought for a moment about how glad he was to be able to appreciate a drink without Cuddy there to nag him.

"How many drinks have you had?" She would ask him, even if she'd been counting all night.

"You know exactly how many so stop pretending you're doing anything but trying to make me feel guilty," he had said from where he sat next to her on her couch.

"Oh," she'd laughed. That bitter laugh that she pulled off so well. Nothing good ever came of it. In fact, he remembered having been fired once, shortly following one of her longer, bitter laughs. "I know _you_ could never feel guilty about anything."

"And you feel guilty for everything. Perfect balance. We're like the superego and the id. I get to be the id, of course. You're the superego. The boring one."

"House," she sighed. "You drink too much." He simply rolled his eyes in response. "I know you don't like me saying it but it's true. After years of drug abuse trashing your liver, you quit the drugs and then increase your intake of alcohol? It's reckless."

"I know _you _would just hop around on a bum leg all day and then come home and let the all natural healing power of your toddler's laughter soothe your aches and pains away, but the rest of us need some Giggle Juice to make it through the rough nights," he said, staring off into space.

"This has nothing to do with your leg."

"And you're the expert on that, Doctor? It makes sense, I suppose. I have you to thank for landing me in this condition after all." House knew it was a cheap shot. He didn't even mean it, really. He never blamed her and never gave her any reason to think he did, except of course the day he woke up to find the muscle missing, but that was an overreaction.

Cuddy sat wide-eyed and mouth ajar, in disbelief that he would even say it to her. While she had always felt guilty, he had never actually _said_ anything to make her feel guilty. And she had always appreciated him for that.

"Right," she said, recovering from her initial shock. "It's all _my_ fault."

"It isn't," House said, rolling his eyes and wanting to simply take it back and avoid the ensuing argument.

"You just said it. Is that how you really feel?"

"Of course not," he shrugged casually. "I was just trying to piss you off."

"Why do you do that?"

"I don't know," he sighed, annoyed and not wanting to have this conversation.

"I really underestimated how hard this would be," she said, staring into the wall.

"What?" he asked, knowing the answer.

"Putting up with you," she replied with a short breathy laugh.

"Look," he said, sitting forward, wanting nothing more than to diffuse the seriousness of this conversation. "I'm drinking because I'm bored. A screaming child is the closest thing you have to a TV in your house. And no offense to her but she's no 'Grey's Anatomy'. I mean, that show is like they just watch our lives at the hospital and put it on television!" he joked.

He lied to her so often, he almost wasn't even sure when he was doing it. If he was being completely honest with himself, which was very seldom the case, there was a bit more to it than that. He couldn't help but feel uncomfortable when she was happy. Or when they both were happy. In moments of extended laughter between the two of them or when they sat on his couch and she had her head on his shoulder, an undeniable feeling of negativity overcame him. It made him ask himself 'when will all of this come to an inevitable end?', 'when will I lose this?'. The drinking helped numb all the questions. But he wouldn't tell any of that to her, of course.

"Well," she thought for a moment. "We could just talk, you know," she offered, her brow furrowed in anticipation of the mocking she was about to receive. He laughed at her for a moment, just as she had expected.

"Even _if_ that sounded appealing to me-" he began, mostly making fun. "You've had your face in your work since the moment Rachel went to sleep."

She worked all day, came home and spent time with her daughter. By the time Rachel went to sleep, there was always more work to be done. There was always the feeling of wanting to spend more time with Cuddy. Wanting to hear her laugh, and wanting to hear the sound of her voice as she talked (sometimes he didn't even pay attention to what she was saying, so much as how she was saying it). And of course, at night, when they went to bed. But House didn't see any room for change in her life. Let alone any room for more time with him.

"I know," she said, with a deep sigh, closing the file that was lying over her lap. "I'm sorry. I'm done."

"Don't stop on my account. I'm having a blast staring at your wall_._ _Where a TV should be_."

"I don't have time for TV," she reasoned. "But if it means that much to you," she trailed off, scooting closer to him on the couch, until she could reach up and place her hands over his face and-

House stopped playing that evening back in his head. He remembered sufficiently enough to get his mind back to where it needed to be: remembering why he did the right thing by cutting her loose. He took the drink from his glass and turned back to the 1940's vaudeville movie on his television.


	4. Fourth

A/N: So sorry this has taken me so long. I only hope that there are people out there who are still interested in reading this. Thank you to everyone who is sticking with it. And thanks, of course, to my beta, Pippa.

xxxx

Wilson scratched his fingernail over the fabric of the armrest as he watched Cuddy, who sat in an adjacent chair. She was looking down at a file, skimming its contents. She closed it, picked up another and looked through that one as well. Wilson sat, doing nothing. The entire time they'd been sitting in her office, discussing the impending budget cuts and how it will affect his practice, Wilson had been trying to think of a way to segue into the impending medical conference to no avail. Until finally,

"How's your speech coming?" She asked, still looking through the manila folder.

"Good. Really, I've given this speech twice before. It's just a matter of updating it," he shrugged, pausing a few seconds before asking, "Have you decided whether or not you're going."

"Yeah," she said, taking a leaf of paper out of the folder and examining it. "I thought about it last night and decided," she trailed off, furrowing her brow while reading the piece of paper in front of her. "I found what I was looking for," she said, still looking down and reading the paper. "Here is the original list of expenditures that took place before the months in question," she handed it to him.

"And?"

"And I thought you might like to see them," responded slowly with her brow furrowed in confusion.

"No, I mean are you going to the conference?"

"Oh. Yes, I'm going. I thought about it; It's too late to get a full refund on all expenses, my parent's are excited about having Rachel, and I've already arranged for the time off," she shrugged. "And like you said, it'd be nice to get away from everything." Wilson nodded his agreement.

"Glad to hear it," Wilson said, looking back down at the piece of paper in front of him. "It'll be a hematological blast," he said with a good-humored smile. She chuckled and they went back to discussing work things.

Hours later, Wilson found himself back in his office, between scheduled visiting patients with a rare five minutes of time to kill. He walked out into the hallway, wandering over to House's office for a brief visit. House was found at his desk, as expected, on his computer. He looked up as soon as Wilson walked through the door.

"Hey," Wilson said.

"Hey," House replied, hunched over, looking expectantly at his friend. There was a moment of silence before Wilson spoke.

"Cuddy canceled your travel plans," he said, walking further into the room. House just nodded, looking absently into the corer of the room. "But I still think you should go."

"Why?" House said, looking up at Wilson.

"Because you never go to conferences. These days you're out of med school for five minutes and everything you learned is obsolete. It's a part of the job. And like I said," Wilson shrugged. "-it'd be nice to give Cuddy a break from you."

"For a weekend?" House asked, suspiciously. "I'm not even in the hospital on the weekends. There's not even a risk I'd bump into her anyway. Which means there must be another reason you want me to go."

"Well, you could take off Friday and Monday too," Wilson responded defensively.

"Cuddy's going, isn't she?"

"Why would you think that?" Wilson asked, his voice high and giving himself away.

"You brought up this conference yesterday and again today. You want Cuddy and I to go so that I'll see what a mistake I've made and apologize and ask her to take me back."

"That doesn't sound like me," Wilson said, not even bothering to sound convincing.

"It's disgusting how much it sounds like you," House corrected. "You manipulate me into doing what _you_ think I should do. It's your signature move."

"When have I done that??" Wilson asked, with a fake scoff.

"You stole my guitar to get me to hire a team. You drugged me to make me go to my father's funeral. And now you're lying to me to get me to apologize to Cuddy," House leaned back in his chair, having successfully diagnosed the situation. Wilson simply nodded, stalling before giving in.

"Alright," he threw his hands up in the air. "You're right. That was my _evil_ plan."

"What did you think was going to happen? I'd see her on the plane, she'd run into my arms and I'd weaken my resolve."

"I don't know," Wilson confessed with a sigh.

"Sorry, Jimmy. Mommy and Daddy aren't getting back together. I'd talk to you about the effects of being a child of divorce but you've already been through it three

"House, you can't tell me that you haven't thought about her."

"Of course I've thought about her," House reasoned casually. "You wouldn't believe it but her ass looks even better when there's no clothes on it."

"And you can't tell me that you have no interest in getting back together with her," Wilson said, ignoring House's deflections as usual.

"Why is this so important to you?"

"I want you to be happy," Wilson shrugged. "You were good together. And she made you happy. But you folded under the pressure. Deep down you know that. She knows it too and that's why she'll take you back. _If_ you tell her the truth."

"She's better off without me," House hunched down in his chair, placing his elbows on the desk.

"That's not true. And you're certainly not better off without _her_," Wilson said, with his hands on his hips, pacing for a moment.

"I'm the same as before," he said, looking down at his desk in the space between his elbows.

"And you were perfectly happy before," Wilson laughed. "I know that I don't have to convince you that you made a mistake. You just need to admit it. You said you were going to the conference to prove something to her. I think you should go to prove that you want her back."

"And _I_ think you should get out of my office," House raised his eyes to meet Wilson's. Wilson nodded before turning to go, stopping just short of the door.

"Think about it," he said, before walking out the door and returning to his own office. House sat for a moment, glaring into the glass door where Wilson stood moments before.

Wilson had been right about one thing: House did want Cuddy. But he was convinced that he couldn't make it work. His mind shot to one specific example.

Five months ago House had lain in Cuddy's bed, thinking about their morning routine, the comfort and predictability of it.

He would wake up when he heard her getting ready, attempt to coax her back into bed with him, which was successful perhaps thirty-percent of the time. But most of the time she hurried out to see her daughter and quickly drink her coffee. Occasionally, when he couldn't go back to sleep, House would join them, leaning against the fridge, swiping some of Rachel's cheerios when Cuddy wasn't looking as she frantically gathered her briefcase and got things in order for work. Then she would kiss Rachel on the forehead and give House a quick "married" kiss, as he called it, and run off to work, leaving House in her home, not bothering to yell at him about being late to work every day. He would chat idly with the babysitter, who would show up just before Cuddy departed, and attempt not to harass or alienate her (as Cuddy had pleaded him not to several times not to do). He sometimes failed at this but the babysitter had been well prepared by Cuddy and had gotten used to it after a few months. Then House would try to go back to Cuddy's bed and sleep for a few hours. Sometimes this worked, but more often than not, Rachel would scream for him to come and play. He then had two choices, go into the living room and play with her plastic dinosaur toys, or go back to his own apartment. There was a fifty percent chance of either happening.

As he lay in Cuddy's bed next to her, he suddenly felt the desire to do anything in his power to avoid their inevitable morning routing. He waited until her breaths became longer and deeper. And he slipped away, quietly limping around to each item of clothing he had strewn about the room. He slipped his briefs back on, his shirt over his head. Then, as he sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his pants onto his legs, he felt her stir. He froze for a second before turning around to find her watching him.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Home," he stated casually, not wanting to have a discussion about it. "Go back to sleep."

"Why?" She propped herself up on her elbow.

"I'm getting out of your hair," he shrugged.

"I don't need you to do that," she said, sitting completely upright.

"Then I'm getting you out of _my_ hair," he stated. It felt like a defensive reflex, one he immediately regretted because of its abrupt harshness. He hadn't yet gotten used to censoring himself for her sake. She didn't say anything right away; she looked down at her hands on her lap, where they were folded on top of the other. He watched her, as he buckled his belt.

"Okay." Her shoulders sank briefly as she watched him. It was too dark to see her expression. "I understand if you need some space."

"Good," House replied and finished buttoning his shirt. He had meant to tell her he'd call her. Or that he'd see her tomorrow. Or to say anything that would have made it a little better but he didn't. He stood for a brief second before turning to limp out of the room. He saw her the next day at work and they had both pretended it had never happened. That was four months ago.

House had done that a couple more times: sneaking away on nights when he slept over at her place. He reasoned to himself that he often grew tired of routing. As he sat in his office remembering those times, he wondered what she thought when she woke up and found that he wasn't there.

Later on in the day, he watched her from a safe distance behind the nurse's station, through the double glass doors of her office. Her head was dipped down, looking through her paperwork; a strand of hair fell in her face, which she quickly moved back to its rightful place behind her ear. He remembered when he would do that for her, when her body laid on top of his and her dark wavy hair would come down and frame his face, blocking them off from the rest of the world, he would tuck an errant strand behind her ear and she would smile before resting her lips on his lips. It hadn't occurred to him until this very moment that that sequence of events, which had happened many times before, would probably never happen again. He felt his undeniable disappointment of that fact sink down into the pit of his stomach. He quickly snapped out of his trance to find that the nurse standing in front of him had called his name several times already.

That night, as House lay down on his pillow, finding it difficult to go to sleep, he instinctively turned his head to see the adjacent pillow to his left. He knew that if he got close enough, he could smell the scent of her shampoo, as no one ever slept on it but her. He debated silently in his head whether to go through with it or not. On the one hand, he wasn't a huge fan of nostalgia. On the other hand he had an unreasonable desire to do it. He turned around, facing his right, away from that pillow and its implications.

He wondered if she had the same difficulty getting to sleep. There was one Sunday night when she hadn't been able to fall asleep right away. She propped herself up on an elbow and House had known she was watching him. He stubbornly refused to open his eyes to see what she wanted. She whispered his name. He didn't respond. She kissed his neck. He didn't move. She continued to lay kisses on his neck until she reached his jaw. He wasn't having it. He felt her tongue graze his ear lobe and it surprised him and he moved a little, enough to let her know he wasn't asleep. He could sense her smile as she ran her hand slowly from his shoulder to his waist, to his hip and then gradually make its way around to the front of him where he immediately grabbed her hand in a quick movement that startled her and made her flinch.

"You are one selfish little vixen," he said, slowly turning to face her, still holding her hand uncomfortably tight. She raised her eyebrows humorously waiting for an explanation. "If I did this to you, you'd have none of it." She simply giggled in response and began to mount him, lowering her head to kiss him. He didn't stop her.

As House lay in bed alone, thinking about that night, he quickly grabbed her pillow from behind him, pressing it against his chest and breathed in the scent of her hair, implications be damned. He fell asleep soon after.

The next morning, House ducked his head into Wilson office where Wilson looked up quickly from his work. "I'll think about it," House said to him, before closing the door and leaving Wilson sitting at his desk smiling.

xxxx

Wilson was beginning to make a habit out of dropping in on Cuddy unexpectedly. And he always found some work-related or other wise not-House-related reason to do so, whether it was petitioning for new equipment he didn't need or asking her to approve procedures that had previously gone on unapproved.

He left his office at a quarter till noon, made his way down the elevator, through the lobby and into the cafeteria, where he found Cuddy sitting alone with a sizable stack of paperwork in front of her. He approached her, taking a seat across from her at the table.

"Is all of this in the in box or the out box?"

"All of this? This is just the half of it."

"I don't envy you."

"Yeah, well I don't blame you." They sat in silence for a moment before she continued. "Why is it that I can't even turn around anymore without finding you there? I'm beginning to think you have a crush on me," she smiled faintly, lifting her cup of tea to her lips. Wilson swallowed hard before speaking.

"I'm not worried about you if that's what you're thinking."

"Then you're stalking me?"

"No," Wilson responded incredulously. "No. I'm just," he trailed off, giving himself time to think.

"Trying to make House jealous?" she asked, hoping that it weren't the case.

"Of course not," he responded quickly. "Maybe I am a little worried," he insisted. She scoffed. "A _little_," he attempted to clarify.

"Wilson. I don't need to be looked after. I don't need to be coddled. I just need to get my work done."

"I'm worried because you're my friend. Not because you need it, I know you can take care of yourself."

"House is your friend."

"You're my friend too."

"You mean I'm the friend that got dumped."

"That's not what I meant."

"It was the sentiment," she began to gather her files and folders and she tucked them under one arm.

"Don't go. I'll go. I didn't mean to bother you."

"It's alright, I have a meeting in a half hour anyway." Wilson watched her walk out the doors of the cafeteria, staring vacantly at the wall after she was gone.

"Ouch," he heard House's voice from behind him. He turned to find House standing over him. "Looks like you struck out."

"Were you here the whole time?"

"I had a pretty nice view." House extended his cane, pointing to a booth at the far wall.

"I didn't see you," Wilson eyed him suspiciously.

"You wouldn't," house said, holding up a red ball cap.

"Oh, you're pathetic," Wilson scoffed loudly.

"No, _you're_ pathetic," House laughed, taking a seat. "You only lasted two minutes before you got the red light."

"I don't want Cuddy. I'm just trying to fix your mess. _You_ want her. And you had her. And you screwed it up."

"I'm not the one following her around like a dog."

"No. You're following her around like James Bond!" Wilson shouted in a whisper. House tucked his head down, with a slight smile and a nod. "What exactly do you expect to gain while lurking in the shadows?"

"I was curious."

"About?"

"About how she's doing," House shrugged, getting up.

"Then ask her."

"Yeah, I'm sure she'd be very open and honest. Makes total sense."

"Then go to the conference."

"What will that prove?"

"That you want her back and you're willing to do what it takes," Wilson said, looking up at his friend. "I don't think she'd be very receptive to you right now. That was your point." House said nothing. He walked away, placing his cap back on his head and limping out the door.

xxxx

Cuddy sat at her kitchen table, watching Rachel stick cooked vegetables into her mouth one by one. She smiled absently, with one hand on her cheek, admiring the way her daughter talked incessantly as she ate, making absolutely no sense. She would nod and smile occasionally laughing. She was reminded of the way House would have a conversation with her, speaking reasonably with the infant who was rarely saying anything comprehensible. It had always made her laugh. House had a special way of interacting with Rachel that Cuddy found particularly natural and fascinating.

Rachel would sit in her high chair, playing with her plastic dinosaurs that House had got her. He had insisted that Cuddy was perpetuating her gender role by only getting her dolls and purple and pink things. Cuddy insisted she got things that Rachel liked so House bought her the dinosaurs and she has been obsessed with them since.

"Rawr!" Rachel would yell with the T-Rex in one hand as the Brontosaurus attacked it, taking chomps out of its neck.

"That's a Brontosaurus," House said, feigning annoyance. In front of him, he had made an entire scene of dinosaurs roaming the plains of the wooden kitchen table, with little plastic trees and boulders and all. "It's an herbivore," he explained to the child. "It only eats plants."

"Plants," Rachel mangled the word.

"You're a nerd," Cuddy smiled with her back to him as she prepared dinner at the counter.

"Do you want your kid to be stupid?"

"She's two," Cuddy argued.

"A stupid two-year-old is only a year away from being a stupid three-year-old. And then it's all down hill from there." Cuddy just laughed. She picked up a bowl of six grapes and placed it on the tray in front of Rachel.

"Yum, yum," Rachel said as she dipped the Brontosaurus' tiny head into the bowl of grapes, pretending it was eating.

"Smart kid," House said under his breath to himself as he watched her. He didn't even notice Cuddy smiling at him from across the kitchen.

As Cuddy sat alone with Rachel, she tried to mentally fortify the levies in her eyes that held back a swell of tears. When it broke and one drop came crashing onto her check bone, she quickly wiped it away, still smiling at her infant daughter.

Rachel finished her meal and Cuddy brushed her teeth for her, dressed her in her pajamas, read her a story and lay next to her until she fell asleep. After Rachel's eyes were closed, her breathing heavy and her arms lying haphazardly above her head on the pillow, Cuddy crept from the room and turned off the light with a lingering glance on the sleeping girl. She walked into her bedroom and began to fold the clothes in her laundry basket by her bed. She folded several items before she came across a lacy pair of black panties. She held them out in front of her momentarily, remembering the times she'd worn them, or more importantly, the times she'd taken them off. Or he had. She took in a deep breath, before tossing it to the side, trying not to get to specific with her memories. But as she continues to fold, and her mind begins to wonder, and she is forced to repeatedly cast thin, lacy scraps of fabric to the far reaches of the corner of her bed, the memories begin to flood back in.

"House," she'd said only two months ago, her voice only a whisper and in it, a sense of urgency as he un-tucked the bottom of her shirt from her pencil skirt. He unbuttoned the buttons in ascending order, slowly as his lips, sucked on her bottom lip. She let out a moan into his mouth as she scooted closer to him, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and pulling him until she could feel him pressing up against her. He was aroused, of course, and she could feel the evidence of it briefly before she stroked her tongue with his one last time before backing away from him and unbuttoning the last button herself and slowly slipping of her shirt, revealing her bra.

"Turn around," he said, gruffly. And she turned around. The way the tight pencil skirt gripped her made it difficult for him to simply hike it up in a moment of intense passion or to tear it off of her with any amount of ease. So this moment was always slow as she would either she would do it slowly herself as he watched or he would unzip it for her. She liked this, it was a moment where things slowed down for a second, where he was forced to be patient and do nothing more than kiss the back of her neck as he slid the zipper down the back of her.

After the skirt was off, it wasn't long before she was on the bed and he was on top of her, his knees pressing sharply into the mattress on either side of her, her hands stroking his shoulders, their mouths together, the angles of their heads constantly changing, in search of a way to sate their desire, the thing that always eluded them until that moment that was surely soon to come. They were lying perpendicular on the bed, on top of the covers. His fingers laced with hers, holding her hands up over her head and pressed to the bed as he kissed her neck. She writhed around underneath him, wrapping her legs around his waist.

He let go of her hands to unclasp her bra, balancing himself with one hand and reaching around her with the other. She leaned up from the bed to allow him to do this. After he removed it, immediately his hands went to peruse her breasts and her back fell to the bed as he collapsed on top of her. She rested her hands on the back of his head as he kissed her neck and clavicle.

House was feeling increasing pressure in his leg, trying to balance himself and to kiss her and touch her with hands. He felt the familiar pain bubbling to the surface but continued on anyway, making his way to her nipples, taking one into his mouth. She gasped. He loved to hear it and she knew it, taking great care in the sound of it: just enough to drive him crazy.

It motivated him; he wanted to go faster, to be inside her immediately. He grabbed at the sides of panties and tugged, having to spread his on legs to move them out of the way. But the pressure on his thigh was too much. The pain that he knew would come and was only waiting for culminated to a point where he sat completely upright and away from her.

"House?" Cuddy asked, out of breath. "What's wrong?" She placed a hand on his shoulder.

"S'just my leg," he said with his head down, rubbing his thigh.

"What can I do?" she asked. She always asked, even though she knew there was nothing to do.

"Nothing," he said with a gruff voice. She sat watching him with sympathetic eyes. She reached out to touch him again but he moved away, standing up. "I'm going to walk it off," he said.

"Okay," she responded, sounding as understanding as she could muster up. "We can finish this later," she reasoned.

"Not tonight," he said, turning to go.

"House," she called after him as he walked out the door. She didn't follow him, she reconciled that she needed to give him his space. As she stood before her bed, covered in neatly folded stacks of clothes, she wasn't sure she did the right thing. She couldn't help but ask herself if things would be different now. She sat down on her bed putting her face in her hands. A stack of clothes fell on the ground but she sat there not caring: sobs bubbling up from inside of her.

xxxx

Wilson had no doubt that House wanted Cuddy back. In hindsight, he knew he should have seen "the inevitable blow up", as Cuddy had called it, coming. As he walked out of his car and made his way up Cuddy's walkway, he set his goal towards finding out if he truly had Cuddy's interest at heart. He made it to her door and knocked. After waiting about half a minute, the door opened to reveal Cuddy with swollen red eyes, staring at him.

"Hi," he said, unsure of whether to ask her what was wrong. "Are you okay?"

"She," she smiled, her lips pressed tightly together. "M'fine. I was just doing laundry."

"Yeah, that's pretty sad business," he said, calling her out. She rolled her eyes.

"What do you want?"

"To say that I'm sorry. And you're right. Maybe I was trying to make House jealous. But it doesn't mean I don't really care about you."

Cuddy wasn't sure of how to respond. It angered her that Wilson seemed to have blatantly lied to her before, but she knew that he would never do anything to intentionally hurt her. If House had taught her anything, it was the power of reason.

"It's okay," she nodded. "I understand that you're caught in the middle and I'm sorry about that," she said, still holding the door in one hand. There was a brief pause between them.

"Can I come in?" he asked. She was reluctant and he could tell. "Or do you need to get back to your laundry?" he smiled faintly. She sighed, opening the door to let him in. They sat down on her couch and talked for a while, eventually opening a bottle of wine. A half hour after he walked through the door, with two empty glasses in front of them, Cuddy began to remember what had been bothering her earlier and was feeling particularly loose-lipped.

"It was my fault too, you know," she said, seemingly out of nowhere.

"What do you mean?" he asked, leaning forward.

"With me and House. It was my fault."

"Don't say that," Wilson said shaking his head. "Don't go there. House is one of the most screwed up people we know. You can't take responsibility for him."

"I know. But I knew something was bothering him. There were so many times when I could see that he was having a problem: with me, with Rachel, with his leg. I don't know," she shook her head. "Something was bothering him. But I ignored it." Her voice began to tremble a bit. "I just didn't want to push him. I thought if he felt pushed, it would make it worse, that maybe he would give up on us." She made silent promise to herself not to cry and she upheld it for the time being. "And we were already fighting about the other stuff."

"What other stuff?" Wilson asked curiously.

"His behavior, his drinking, everything," she shook her head. She didn't say anything for a moment. She simply hung her head low, thinking.

"But you can't blame yourself for any of that. It sounds to me like it's better in the long run," he shrugged. He hadn't even considered the words before came out of his mouth. Perhaps this was really the truth. Maybe he had been thinking of the situation a lot more one-sidedly than he had originally thought: only seeing from House's perspective. "You shouldn't have to try so hard, Cuddy," he continued. "You're an amazing woman. House knows that, he just can't get over himself long enough to show it. And that's just…" he shook his head. "It isn't what you need," he said. "_or_ what you deserve."

"Thank you," she nodded. "I know you're right, I do. But," she thought for a second before saying the only thing she could think of. "He's House," she shrugged, surrendering to the simplicity of it. "You know?"

"Yeah," he chuckled. "I do." She smiled at him, appreciating the deepness and thoroughness with which he really did know what she was saying. He had tried once to get out of House's tangled web, only to return of his own free will, missing his best friend, as toxic as the relationship may have been. He looked up to find Cuddy smiling at him, he returned the smile, then immediately looking back down at his hands, wondering if things could ever be better between his two friends. He looked up sideways at Cuddy. He saw her brow furrowed again and he knew instinctively what she was thinking about. He opened his mouth and took a breath to say something but no words came out. She looked at him expectantly. But he said nothing. He closed his mouth, shaking his head absently, silently acknowledging that there was nothing left to say on the subject. He gave her another small smile.

"I should get going," he finally said running his hands over his knees just before he stood. She followed suit, walking him to the door.

"You okay to drive?" she asked.

"After two glasses of wine?"

"You're kind of a light weight," she joked. He smiled back at her as he griped the doorknob in one hand, turning it and pulling it open.

"Goodnight Cuddy," he smiled, his last word cut short by the feeling of her hand on his face as she brought her face closer to his. He wasn't sure what to do, so he adjusted his lips to line up directly with hers as they touched. Their lips lingered on each other, parting on briefly, feeling the exchange of each other's air. He could swear he felt the tip of her tongue on his for the shortest moment before pulling away.

"I…" She hovered her hand over her mouth. "I was going to kiss you on the cheek."

"Right. I know," Wilson's face turned became flush and pink. "I bobbed and you weaved and," he smiled, letting out a short and breathy embarrassed laugh. "I'm sorry. I guess maybe I am a light weight," she just smiled at him. "Don't fire me," he joked.

"It's okay. Really," she nodded her head insistently, enjoying his discomfort only slightly. "Goodnight, Wilson."

"Goodnight," he said, turning to go, hearing her close the door behind him as he walked down the walkway, shaking his head at his own foolishness. He stopped just short of his car, pulling his keys from his pocket; he paused, remembering that he needed to pay a visit to House.


End file.
